


Wet Dreams

by lightlybreakfasted



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bottom Steve Harrington, Closeted Character, Dream Sex, Harringrove, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, POV First Person, Pining, Possessive Billy Hargrove, Post-Season/Series 03, Rough Oral Sex, Top Billy Hargrove, slight non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-01 00:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20456291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightlybreakfasted/pseuds/lightlybreakfasted
Summary: Following Season 3, Billy Hargrove falls into a coma and surprises himself with a graphic dream involving the former King of Hawkins High and current Third Mate at Scoops Ahoy.





	Wet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Steve's kind of just here for the ride lol. Not that much non-con! Only a little.

Have you ever jumped into a pool the wrong way, maybe didn’t time the exhale right, and the bubbles straight popped you in the face and rushed up into your sinuses and made you see stars for a second?

This was how Billy had been feeling for the past … however long it’d been, not the whole time of course, just off and on, but it was an odd kind of sneeze-inducing torture that he was strangely starting to find himself getting used to, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. That was when, and possibly why, the dreams began.

At first they were filled with murky violence, the expected flashbacks to his–no, _His_–victims as they begged him to stop: the goosebumps on Heather’s perfect-tan forearms as she attempted to extricate herself from the vinyl rope binding her wrists; her father’s guileless eyes watering as he pulled heavy breaths above the duct tape plastered over his mouth. Billy fell into these dreams easily, though not without struggle; he didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to do those things in the first place. He was a “bad boy,” not a _bad man,_ and he’d assumed if he ever were to kill a man it’d be Neil or an accident, and he’d long made peace with both options. Nice, upstanding types had never really registered on his radar, and he’d never thought enough about any of them to hold a vendetta there, other than maintaining the healthy distance of all teenage boys to rule-abiding citizens. So when the dreams appeared, he grit his teeth and bore down on the guilt and shame and fear as he’d always done, and like the feeling of chlorine rushing through his nose, it wasn’t great but he’d be fine eventually.

Sometimes his mind drifted, though. Sometimes in the midst of the nightmares, other visions would shoot through that had been flitting around somewhere in the shallows, like a time Neil was nice to him, or the way his mother’s eyes had crinkled at the corners as he raced after her on the shore. Greedily, desperately, he’d run behind his younger self, trying to hold onto the memory for longer. _Why couldn’t that have been its own dream? _Why did it have to get chased so quickly by the sound of Heather's mother's muffled screams coming through his backseats from the trunk of his Camaro? Another pain to shove down, the bitter bile rising again as he continued to float listlessly, uselessly down this purgatory Lazy River.

Now he was inside that creepy Byers’ house, the messy one with the sketches and broken plates scattered across the floor, and him too, later on, but not yet, because he was still on top of King Steve right now, laying him out with one nasty cross hook after another. He remembered how he’d felt that night, like he’d wanted to get the whole ordeal with Max over with quickly so he could get get back to his date, yet not a little part of him had desired this, had wanted to blow off steam from his "chat" with Neil, had needed to feel something else break besides just him. This time though, Dream-Harrington was bloodily matching his grin, was mirroring his exact expression as he turned his head from side to side, was examining him closely as Billy leaned in and peered into his watery brown eyes, pupils blown with head trauma and … arousal? _Was he as hard as Billy?_ The realization that Harrington could be into this, into being _hurt_ like this, washed over Billy, leaving behind a curious hunger in its wake. Now their eyes were closed, but Harrington’s right hand held Billy’s face down to his as his mouth captured Billy’s in an obscene kiss, his tongue deftly stroking the underside of Billy’s until suddenly it was Billy’s cock he was laving, Billy now throned on King Steve’s chest with his buttonfly open to a bloodied mouth softer than any woman’s and his hands tightly gripping brown curls, his shirt having come untucked in the fight.

There was no way Harrington could be comfortable like this, his arms forced above his head in this position, but then his arms were back below Billy’s legs as he fondled his balls, pressing on his perineum in the way Billy liked and squeezing the base of his cock with the other hand. Harrington’s tongue worked Billy expertly in a steady rhythm, his jugular bobbing until Billy pulled out to lean over him more directly, then pushed his cock down again past Harrington’s tight O into the wet heat of his mouth, breaching his throat and feeling every minute choke and gasp and gag vibrate through him as he pressed further and further in. Fucking Harrington's face into the floor wasn't going to be enough. He needed more, was feeling so cold before this, realized he needed to get as far into Harrington as possible until suddenly, seamlessly, the two of them were back on Billy’s bed, or rather, Harrington was on his back, naked save his Casio watch, his head tipped off the bed with Billy standing bent over him, painting those swollen red lips with his dripping cock. Billy absently wondered what would happen if he just held it down Harrington’s throat; _would he fight it, thrashing and gulping for air below?_ Or would he relax into it, take it, give himself over to Billy? How long could King Steve go without taking a breath?

He realized a second too late–in the view from his bedroom mirror–that he was doing exactly that, keeping himself firmly planted in the quavering depths of Steve’s throat. His own hair unruly and his eyes wild, Billy took a second to admire the way his muscles glistened from where they peeked through his unbuttoned shirt in the mirror. He moved to let his jeans ruck themselves down a bit until he could see the top of the curve of his own ass, firm and enviable; smugly, he had the thought that he looked like a young god taking what was his. Below him, Steve had started to shake, swallowing frequently around the head, saliva spilling out of his taut lips, so Billy held him down and punished him with hard, thorough strokes directly into the tight squeeze of his aching throat. Steve's sobs felt like heaven around Billy and he nearly swooned, dizzy with the knowledge that for the space of a dream, Steve was his completely, his to control and please and hurt.

If Steve couldn’t take it, he was rallying, giving up on his attempts to stop the onslaught of Billy’s hips and reaching down to grab his own impossibly stiff cock as Billy pulled Steve’s ankles up in a bruising grip towards his own shoulders, timing his thrusts to Steve’s strokes without ever taking his eyes off of Steve’s perfect little asshole. The next time they’d do this, Billy would tongue his way in until it was just wet and loose enough, and then he’d slam his way into Steve until he’d never be able to leave this bed, it would hurt so much to walk. This idea had Billy reeling with feelings of possessiveness and conquering; thoughts of consuming his rival, roughing him up, making him cry, owning him. Before he knew it, his cock was welling up and he was pouring himself directly down Steve’s throat, watching Steve’s hands fall away and his eyes finally roll backwards into their sockets, and then they were back at the Byers’ and Billy’s head was swimming as he leaned away, teetering over a passed-out Steve on unsteady legs with a syringe in his neck and a determined horror in his sister’s eyes,

until he wasn’t.

Billy awoke slowly, softly in a room that was much too bright and a bed that smelled of bleach. Next to his head a steady _beep_ kept time and a few feet down the hall, an exhausted medical staff worked the phones, but here in bed, Billy was preoccupied with a thousand worrisome revelations. _Since when did he have a crush on Harrington? _Was intimacy the reason he could only call him _King_ Steve? He raked a hand through his hair as the thoughts of what they did together, the need to find him and do those things in real life, bubbled up inside him and made him feel as though he were drowning. _Just what kind of drugs did these doctors have him on? _Maybe that was the source of these vivid dreams?

He froze as he realized he wasn't alone in this room; in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of red hair. Feeling caught, he slowly turned his head to see Max creepily, delightedly watching him from the chair in the corner, stars in her eyes.

“So, Billy. Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”


End file.
